


In a City Under Aerial Bombardment

by battle_cat



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), The Blitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: After the church and the bomb and the books.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 349





	In a City Under Aerial Bombardment

He’s in the car. He’s in the car with Crowley.

Crowley, who he hasn’t seen in eighty years, who walked into a _church_ for him, who looks unnervingly dashing in a fedora—

_Don’t think about that._

The leather satchel of books sits heavy in his lap, his hand still clenched around the handle. His terribly human nerves and brain seem insistent on replaying, over and over, the fleeting touch of Crowley’s fingers against his when he handed the bag over.

_Oh no,_ he thinks for what feels like the thousandth time since the bomb went off.

Somewhere outside, the air raid siren is still wailing. He is dimly aware of the occasional, dull coughing _boom_ behind them, a sound that would be mistaken for distant thunder by someone who hasn’t lived in a city under aerial bombardment.

_Boom._

The car is sleek and black and showy, all buttery leather and chrome detailing inside. He couldn’t give a toss about human automobiles, but he does know good craftsmanship when he sees it, and this car is _beautiful._ It is also _extraordinarily_ Crowley.

He’s never even been to Crowley’s flat. Riding in his _car_ feels dangerously intimate in a way he’s not prepared for. Or maybe it’s just that everything where Crowley is concerned feels dangerously intimate, all of a sudden.

_Boom._

That one, far enough away not to be worried. Not for themselves, anyway. You learn how to judge such things, living in a city under aerial bombardment.

_Boom._

Crowley had known. He had known Aziraphale would save them both. (Had put the safety of his body unhesitatingly in his hands—_oh no, definitely don’t think about that_—) But Crowley had guessed that in his haste, he would forget about the books, and that it would matter to him.

(It twists his gut to think about it, how sad he would have been over some bits of paper and leather when there were _humans_ being blown to bits in the war every day…but he would have been. He would have been distraught over those charred and scattered pages—stupid, ephemeral, material things; the physical manifestation of human brilliance and stubbornness and yearning and striving—and Crowley knew he would have been, and so he’d saved the books, without judgment or hesitation, for no reason that Aziraphale could possibly fathom other than simple kindness—)

_Oh no._

Around them, London is pitch-black, silent and still, a prey animal holding its breath. They drive with the lights off, the only car on the road save the wail of a single ambulance, passing somewhere nearby. Twice they have to double back to find a way around rubble that wasn’t there an hour ago.

(The thing about being a civilian under aerial bombardment is that there’s nothing to _do._ A soldier can at least cling to a matchstick of a weapon, a tattered illusion of some agency. A civilian can only hide and pray and wait.

The thing about being an angel in a city under aerial bombardment is that you may find yourself receiving stern instructions not to interfere. And in your days you have been a soldier, a guardian, a protector. And now you can do nothing.)

Next to him, Crowley slouches with nonchalant calm, one hand on the wheel, steering them through the deserted streets as if driving in the dark through an air raid is something he does every day.

_BOOM._

That one, close enough to make Aziraphale jump in his seat, the pressure wave like a punch in the chest. Crowley doesn’t flinch, but his white-knuckled hand on the wheel betrays the calm façade.

“We’ll be all right,” he murmurs, and Aziraphale can feel the quiet shiver of power as he _makes_ it so. Keeping them safe. Keeping them both safe.

_Does that make us even for tonight?_

No. There is still the matter of the books. The books, which Crowley didn’t have to save but did, because he knew it mattered. 

_Because he knew it mattered to me._ The thought surfaces unbidden. _Because he _knows_ me, and he knows what I value, and if I value something he will value it too, and he’ll protect it._

_Oh no,_ he thinks, for the thousandth-time-plus-a-few. _I love him._

Halfway through the drive to Soho, the air raid sirens stop, and Crowley lets himself relax one infinitesimal degree.

It’s a relief, not having to keep track of all the bombs. The energy and concentration that task demands is not insubstantial. But now that he’s not doing that, it suddenly becomes much, much harder to ignore how _bloody_ much his feet hurt.

It had been ages since he’d tried to walk on consecrated ground, and he’d never tried to stay for quite that long. He’d expected it to burn, and had fully decided it was worth it. What he had not expected was being unable to miracle the pain away once he was out of the church.

He’d tried. He’d tried three times. The pain had only gotten worse, especially as the euphoria from pulling off what he’d thought was a quite respectably badass rescue had waned.

By the time they reach the edge of Soho, he’s gritting his teeth every time he has to hit the break or the gas. He’s pretty sure the Bentley is doing most of the driving at this point, while he tries to keep his breathing even and thinks _don’t fuck this up, don’t you dare fuck this up_ over and over again.

Because Aziraphale is in the car with him. Aziraphale, sitting unusually quiet in the passenger seat, the faint glow of moonlight catching the white-blond of his hair, his soft hands curled around the leather strap of the satchel of books, his face a tight mask of worry in the dark.

_(What is he worried about? Fuck’s sake, you’re driving through a damn air raid, don’t overthink it. You overthink everything, don’t you? He’s in the car with you. He wouldn’t have accepted a ride if he didn’t want to see you, would he?)_

Why in _blessed Heaven_ did human feet have to have such a ridiculous number of nerve endings?

When they pull up to the bookshop, Aziraphale is lost so deep in whatever thoughts he’s having that they sit there in silence until Crowley says, gently, “We’re here.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale’s gaze flicks to him for a split second before looking away. “Come inside? At least ‘til the all-clear.”

“All right, then.”

_You will not fuck this up for me._ He’s talking to his feet this time. _You will get out of this car and walk inside like you are carrying a very suave and cool demon IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU._

He gets as far as standing up, but when it comes to the act of picking up a foot and putting it down again his body simply physically _will not._ He braces a hand on the doorframe, gritting his teeth and cursing his stupid, frail, human body and its stupid, frail, human instinct to avoid pain. Aziraphale is already out of the car (there go his idle thoughts of opening the door for him like a gentleman) and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“Crowley, are you— Oh. Oh, dear, your poor feet, I should have thought about—”

“It’s fine,” he grinds out. “‘M just—gimme a minute—” 

Before he can salvage any dignity, Aziraphale is right there next to him, a steady arm around his back, and his traitorous hand is grabbing a handful of Aziraphale’s coat as he limps his way toward the door.

“Can you make it inside? I could carry you if you—”

“You will not.”

“I assure you, you’re quite light to me.”

“If you so much as think about it—”

“Fine, fine, have it your way, oh noble martyr—”

Crowley makes an offended noise that comes out much closer to hysterical than he intended, but at least they are almost at the door.

Inside, the shop is dark and silent, blackout curtains hiding even the anemic moonlight from the street. Aziraphale seems to know the geography by heart, and guides him to the back room unerringly.

“There now,” he says as he eases him down onto the couch. He lights a candle; of course he does; because why not do this by the most excruciatingly romantic light source possible—

“Drink?” Aziraphale suggests.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“Haven’t any wine, I’m afraid.” He drifts out of sight and returns with two tumblers of whisky. Not good whisky, either, Crowley can smell as Aziraphale hands it to him.

“You haven’t just been miracling the cellar full?”

Aziraphale looks pained. “Doesn’t seem right, you know, what with…” He gestures vaguely at the darkened city hunched warily around them.

Crowley intends to respond with something snarky about what a _noble martyr_ the angel is being, to suffer deprivation along with the humans when he doesn’t have to. But all that comes out is, “…Yeah.” He takes a swallow of whisky, and it goes down like holy water, which at least momentarily distracts him from the burning in his feet.

“Let me see.” And oh, Satan in the deepest pit, Aziraphale is kneeling down on the dusty rug at his feet. His hands are sure, movements practical but gentle, as he peels off Crowley’s shoes and socks to examine his scorched feet. The soles are a bright angry red, and he can see a nasty blister forming under his left big toe, but all things considered, he thinks it could have been worse.

Aziraphale makes a small, wounded noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, _Crowley._ You shouldn’t have.”

“What, and just let you get discorporated like a bloody idiot?” It comes out a bit snappish, but can you really blame him when he’s trying not to vibrate out of his skin at the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm, firm grip on his ankle? “‘S not that bad, really. Just…can’t seem to heal ‘em myself.”

“Allow me.” And he actually makes to run a healing hand over Crowley’s foot before he jerks away.

“Wait!” he hisses. “They’ll—I mean—won’t they notice?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I really don’t think they’re keeping track. Your side?”

“Don’t think it registers, if I’m not the one doing it.”

“Well, then.” Before Crowley can come up with any more objections, Aziraphale brushes a hand along the length of his foot, a centimeter away from touching. He feels the shiver of a tiny miracle run over his skin, but when it fades the pain is still there.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale grumbles. “Well. The human way, then.”

“Angel…you really don’t have to.”

“Please,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something vulnerable and desperate in it. As if he wasn’t already about to spontaneously combust at the sight of Aziraphale, on his knees, the soft planes of his face and the halo of platinum curls illuminated by candlelight—

He must have nodded at some point, because Aziraphale reaches behind himself and produces a porcelain washbasin full of water. It’s blissfully cold when Crowley slips his feet in, and he bites back a groan of relief.

“Wait here,” Aziraphale says, and disappears into the back. He returns with a battered medic’s kit that looks like it belongs to the war before this one.

“You…have an actual human first aid kit.”

“There is a war on, you know.” Aziraphale is rooting around in the kit. “I know I have…ah. Here.” He retrieves a tiny glass pot. When he opens it, the cool green scent is familiar. Familiar and _old,_ bringing back sudden memories of a long-dead city, on the banks of a river that changed course millennia ago.

“You showed me, remember? Back in Ur.”

“Ah yes. And on that day, God created sunburn,” he intones.

Aziraphale gives him one of those tiny, secret smiles, the kind that can keep him going for a century apiece. “You were very kind,” he says, as if they were still talking about a hot summer day beside a river five thousand years ago. “You didn’t have to help me. Let me help you.”

He’s kneeling again, and he has a small towel in his hands, which feels like the softest towel in all of creation when he carefully pats Crowley’s feet dry. The aloe on his fingers is cool enough to make Crowley shiver, his movements steady and unhesitating and thorough as he smoothes it into burned skin.

_Please,_ he’d said, and Crowley had always been good at hearing what he didn’t say. _Let me do this for you. It’s a small thing, a practical thing, an action that we can both pretend has no symbolic significance whatsoever. Please let me do this so we can both have a moment not to look at the enormity of things, salvaged books and ruined churches and a world on the edge of catastrophe and how fucking beautiful you look after eighty years apart—_

“Better?” Aziraphale looks up from his work, his thumb still resting on the arch of Crowley’s left foot.

And it is a bit better; the stupid human remedy appears to be working where miracles cannot. He swallows back the lump of desperate longing in his throat before he answers, “Yeah.”

Aziraphale stands, wiping his hands on the towel. “Stay the night?” he ventures. “I—” Then it’s his turn to swallow back what shouldn’t be said. “Why risk going all the way back to your flat now?”

“Fair point.” He eases his feet up onto the couch, finds his tumbler of terrible whisky again. “Besides, I’m dying to know how you ended up in her majesty’s secret service.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiles, the playful smile that says he has a delightful story he’s just bursting to share with Crowley. “Funny story that…”

They talk into the wee hours of the morning, sipping cheap whisky and sharing jokes and stories, and it’s as if they had never been apart. It leaves a terrible ache in Aziraphale’s chest.

_I missed you. I missed you so much._

At some point, Crowley’s speech gets slurry, his gestures languid. “Mind if I sleep a bit?” he asks, tilting his head back to catch Aziraphale’s gaze. He’s long since tucked his glasses away in his jacket pocket, the gold of his eyes warm in the candlelight.

_God, you’re beautiful._

“Not at all.”

Crowley knocks back the last of his whisky, and then he snags his hat from the table and tugs it over his eyes and falls asleep sprawled out right there on the couch.

Aziraphale…should busy himself with reading or something, he supposes. He definitely should not be sitting here in the fading candlelight, watching a barefoot demon sleep on his couch and thinking a string of increasingly forbidden thoughts.

_I trust him enough to let him into my private space, the space I’ve built on Earth for myself. And he trusts me enough to fall asleep here._

_Don’t think about that._

_I’ve always trusted him, haven’t I? I told him I was unarmed on the wall of Eden, and he found it charming._

_Don’t _think_ about that._

_He protected me tonight. He’s always protected me. He came for me when my own side would not._

_God! What is WRONG with you?!_

But the thoughts keep coming, the terrible, dangerous things he would never, ever say, that feel traitorous to even think—and the memories, of small kindnesses and grand gestures and drunken nights laughing together until it was a good thing they didn’t technically have to breathe—

_Oh God. He loves me too._ As soon as he thinks it, the certainty of it rolls through him like a blast wave. Why had it taken him so long to recognize it?

_You know why,_ says the forbidden voice crammed down in the deepest hidden corner of his brain. _Because the thing Heaven calls love is cold and full of judgment, and being around Crowley never feels like that. Because he doesn’t love you that way. He loves you the way humans do, just as you are, _because_ of who you are, and no one else has ever loved you that way. Not even Her._

He claps a hand over his mouth in the dimly lit room, as if the blasphemy will escape it if he doesn’t. He doesn’t know when he started shaking, but he’s certainly shaking now.

He needs to stop. He needs to go upstairs, away from the demon whose lanky form has gone all soft and rumpled with sleep. Drink some tea. Read something that requires concentration until he stops having such perilous thoughts. Do normal things, as if he isn’t an angel who’s just realized he’s in love with a demon. That’s how the humans do it, right? Keep calm and carry on. Keep doing the routine, ordinary things, as if you haven’t just gotten a glimpse of your entire world tilting into oblivion.

_Do it now,_ he tells himself. _Stand up. Put out the candle. Go upstairs, to your quiet little flat with no demons sleeping in it. Drink some of that atrocious ration-card tea and shove everything down out of sight, where it’s safe. That’s how you keep the both of you safe, and you know it._

He doesn’t steal a final glance at Crowley, at the sleep-loose limbs, the slightly parted lips visible beneath the brim of his hat, as he blows out the stub of candle. He does miracle up a blanket to drape over him, making sure his bare feet are covered. That bit is only polite.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://fuckyeahisawthat.tumblr.com)


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